


Love is a Stranger

by tiger_moran



Series: Lyric [8]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arguing, Dominance, Don't copy to another site, Kissing, Love, M/M, No Smut, Referenced Masochism, Referenced Sadism, Some angst, referenced Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27443725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Eighth in a collection of standalone but also interconnected Moriarty and Moran fics inspired by lyrics from songs, particularly pop/rock songs.
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty
Series: Lyric [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992709
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Love is a Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Eurythmics – Love is a Stranger
> 
> It's savage and it's cruel  
> And it shines like destruction  
> Comes in like the flood  
> And it seems like religion  
> It's noble and it's brutal  
> It distorts and deranges  
> And it wrenches you up

“Where have you been?” Moriarty asks, standing facing the hearth, his back to Moran.

“Out.” Moran stands there in the doorway, watching him, pausing upon the threshold into the drawing room. He runs a hand over his hair, smoothing it back after removing his hat.

“I had noticed you were out; I was enquiring as to where _precisely_ you went to.” Still the Professor does not turn around.

Moran steps into the room and carefully closes the door behind him.

“Because if you were trailing around after Sherlock Holmes again...” Moriarty turns to face him at last. “I am not going to be happy with you, Colonel.”

“Why'd you ask if you know already?” Moran enquires, baring his teeth in a wry grin, because of course the Professor knows, because he knows Moran and he knows Moran cannot drop this.

“I ordered you to leave him be!”

“Yeah, well, it was a bloody stupid order.” Moran's gaze does not deviate from the Professor's. Not submissive, not at all, when he is like this, when he has a bee in his bonnet about something and when he believes that Moriarty, for all his brilliance, is behaving recklessly and stupidly.

And wasn't that partially what drew Moriarty to Moran in the first place – that the Colonel takes orders, is obedient, is loyal, but he is not unquestioning, not weak-willed, and has never been afraid to stand up to his supposed superiors and tell them to their faces when he thinks they are wrong? The Professor never wanted or needed some spineless nincompoop and he has always liked that Moran challenges even him, when he believes the Professor is wrong.

“You still think I am, what? Obsessed with him? Infatuated with him?” Moriarty sneers. “And yet _you_ , Colonel, are the one creeping around London after him, checking up on his whereabouts constantly. One might start to suspect _you_ were the one with the infatuation, not I.”

Moran folds his arms across his chest and stands there smiling, refusing to rise to the bait. “I'd just prefer to know where he is and what he's doing so I know he ain't plottin' something against you. Nothing more to it than that.”

“You infuriate me,” Moriarty says coolly, striding towards Moran.

“I know.” Despite the swiftness of Moriarty's movements, Moran stands his ground.

“You and your disobedience.” Moriarty eyes Moran with that same coolness in his look as in his voice.

“My obedience to you is not unconditional,” Moran reminds him. “Never 'as been, but if it'll make you feel better, go ahead and hurt me, punish me for it.”

It is provocation this, but not the kind Moriarty is used to, not from the Colonel. This is something deeper and darker than Moran's usual rebelliousness, utterly lacking its usual playful tone, and that look on Moran's face now, that infuriating slight smirk... There is the smallest part of Moriarty that wants to slap Moran just to wipe that look off his face, and a part too that wants to hurt Moran – _truly_ hurt him – just to prove that he can, just to satisfy that perverse and cruel desire within himself.

He grips Moran by the lapel of his jacket and shoves him back against the door, hard, and Moran doesn't resist him. He grasps both of Moran's hands and pins them up above Moran's head, and Moran doesn't fight him.

Sadism, they call it these days, obtaining pleasure from inflicting pain or humiliation without pity. The Professor does not truly consider himself to be a sadist, not really, but he can recognise within himself certain tendencies, certain outré desires, to dominate yes but also to deal out pain, just a little. Moran has always taken whatever the Professor has given to him, and he has taken it willingly. It is why they have fitted together so beautifully, despite their differences, for Moran has within him too his own dark desires - to be controlled, and to be hurt, also just a little. Even the Colonel though must have his breaking point, the point where he will fight back, or plead for an end, or simply break down entirely. Moriarty finds himself wondering sometimes where exactly that point is and what it would take to push Moran past it.

He doesn't actually do it, of course; he has never tried, and even now... he still grips Moran's hands tightly, digging his thumbs sharply into the wrists, but Moran looks back at him without fear, with complete understanding.

Moriarty's eyes seem to shine strangely, almost feverishly, as he leans over and kisses Moran, assertively, but oddly restrained. He leans further over then, pressing his face even closer to Moran's, his cheek pressed against the Colonel's momentarily, and he nips Moran's ear, catching the lobe between his teeth for a second or two, reminding him of how easily he can hurt him.

“Stop pursuing Holmes,” he says a moment later, his voice low in Moran's ear.

Moran swallows. “No,” he says. “ _Sir_. Not until you stop this bizarre _game_ you're playing with him.” Even though he understands even now, Moriarty's growing obsession, one that he suspects will not end well. Moriarty needs protecting and Moran has sworn to protect him, not merely as part of his job but because... because Moriarty means more to him than anyone else in the world. Because Moran... he _loves_ the Professor, even though the word itself is a stranger to his lips, never uttered by him. But love is a strange thing, by turns capable of being both noble or cruel, of giving one the most tremendous highs and the most crushing of lows. And unfortunately perhaps the person Moriarty needs protecting from the most is not Sherlock Holmes, but himself, and how is Moran meant to do that? He knows too that if he steps in himself to end the game prematurely by removing Holmes from play he will damage something between himself and the Professor irrevocably, yet if he does nothing...

“Do you presume, my boy, to tell me what I can and cannot do, hmm?” Moriarty enquires, his voice still low, his breath tickling against Moran's ear.

“No sir, I do not.” Moran turns his head, just slightly, so that his cheek is closer to Moriarty's lips again. “But I _am_ telling you, while you toy with Holmes like this, I will keep watching over him.”

Moriarty laughs softly, and he actually sounds truly amused. “Very well,” he says. He still has hold of Moran's wrists, gripping them tightly, as he inclines his head to kiss Moran again. This kiss is deeper, still oddly detached in Moriarty's usual manner, but passionate even so, Moran allowing Moriarty to take the lead but kissing him back with great fervour. It goes on for a long time and Moran closes his eyes during it, as if to savour it properly, as if to try to commit it all to his memory – the feel of the Professor's mouth against his, the smell of him, the weight of his body pinning him against the wall – trying to sear every sensation, every second of it into his mind.

When Moran opens his eyes again at last, Moriarty wonders why they seem to glimmer, wetly.


End file.
